


Ashes of Dreams You Let Die

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6825664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a lengthy period of estrangement, a series of events lead Karma and Amy back into each other's lives. Knowing that second chances don’t come along often, Karma’s determined not to waste the opportunity.</p><p>
  <i>“There’s no real word for the way you love her.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scattered

**Author's Note:**

> AU (ish). Future fic. Follows canon and includes S3 references. The genesis of this fic is pretty long, but my reason behind writing it is this: I’m really interested in reunion and how you cope when you lose contact with someone who used to be a huge part of you life. That concept has been in my head ever since Amy detailed her grocery line nightmare to Shane (yes, really!), but I wanted to tell a different kind of story with an older Karma and Amy to see how I think they might’ve changed over the years. I created the backstory here because I watched too much Pan Am, helped along by Google, and strangely, Sara Bareilles’ autobiography. There’s lots of character introspection and lots of work in this story. It means a lot. I hope you find enjoyment in it. I found it cathartic to write for a lot of reasons. Don’t be put off by the sparing summary, there are plot elements I don’t want to give away. Title from/inspired by the B.J. Thomas song of the same name.

_“In the end, I decide that the mark we've left on each other is the_  
_colour and shape of love. That’s the unfinished business between us.”_ **  
** – Sara Zarr, _Sweethearts_.

***

**Amy Raudenfeld wants to be friends with you on Facebook.**

The notification came one Wednesday morning out of the blue. A whole ten minutes passed with you pacing back and forth in your cramped Dallas apartment, talking it over with your roommate Gia before you decided to do anything about it at all. For at least nine of those ten minutes, deleting the notification was high on your list of options.

You always thought reconnecting with Amy would bring about some cataclysmic event: an earthquake or a tornado of some kind. But there was nothing, not even the click of a button, you accepted the request on your phone after years of silence. It was the start of a whole tide of information – along with Twitter, YouTube, and Instagram – that helped you to play catch-up and get to know the Amy Leigh Raudenfeld who’s twenty-five (almost twenty-six) and join the dots between her and the eighteen-year-old version of her that left Austin (and you) behind for New York nearly eight years ago. It was a teary goodbye, in an airport lounge full of people, surrounded by Amy’s parents, Lauren, Shane, Felix, and Liam. Your hug lasted longer than the rest. The goodbye kiss on the cheek was a proxy for one that should’ve been on the lips, but it was too public for things like that. It was too late.

Real life is nothing like a Richard Curtis movie.

She asked you thousands of times if she should go, wondering what it would mean for your friendship. Still, you couldn’t give her a reason to stay or even a reason not to leave – those are different things, you know that now. She was too talented, too eager, too ready to see the world anyway. There was already talk of submitting to film festivals and gallery shows, and you weren’t about to be the person that held her back. You were so incredibly proud of her, and so pleased she’d found her niche, even though you were far from finding yours.

It sounds dramatic when you think of it like that. _Left_. Like you held some claim over her, that you somehow usurped the place that Reagan, Sabrina, and Felix held in her affection. You did too, but not in any way you could name in finite terms or use out loud in ordinary conversation. There’s no real word for the way you love her. That, perhaps, was the problem. She got into NYU to study film, and you ended up in Ohio at Kent State, falling belatedly into translation and linguistics after leaving your music major behind to play gigs on the side for fun instead.

It was good, for a while, but good never lasts.

You wish you could say it was some huge thing that brought about the end of _KarmaAndAmy_ (it’s always like that, in one breath), that you were amidst some mad, passionate affair and had stormed out one day after a huge argument never to return. Something that dramatic would at least convey the depth of feeling you had for each other. But no, it was a slow decline, until one day the texts got shorter; you were never in the right time zone to call or FaceTime. Eventually – or perhaps inevitably – you lost touch of each other’s Twitter handles, and usernames, and cell numbers. The first time you heard the robotic delivery of ‘this number is no longer available’ when you called Amy one night on a whim, you cried yourself to sleep.

A small part of you died that day. Some invisible cord unravelled, severed, unceremoniously. That same week, your ridiculously hot, but flaky and _achingly_ hipster artist boyfriend Seth, broke up with you after eighteen months of arguments punctuated by very good make-up sex. For a while, it was exciting because he was older than you and in grad school. He told you how beautiful you were and how he needed a model when you felt anything but _beautiful_. It made girls jealous in a way they never had been. You were his muse, his entire focus of attention, and it was glorious. But, all too fast, you became old news and he needed to break free and find himself. He found himself in bed with your college roommate, Julia. Then they went and found themselves together in Thailand, or so you heard. They were several people you’re glad you lost touch with. If you ever see the names Julia Ford or Seth Ziegler again it’ll be way too soon.

You wish you could say that was rock bottom. It wasn’t.

After graduation, you left Ohio, quit your shitty waitressing job, went home and spent two weeks on your parents couch eating your way through the five stages of grief and wondering what the _hell_ you were supposed to do at twenty-two with college debts, no job, and no prospect of getting another. The Brew n’ Chew was hiring, and you were giving serious thought to applying to be their marketing assistant, which involved walking around Austin in a giant coffee cup costume. In the end, sheer desperation lead you to the checkout girl position at Whole Foods. Sometimes you wish you _had_ taken that marketing job, at least that would’ve avoided all those shame-faced conversations in grocery lines with your mother’s friends who were surprised to see you working there, twenty pounds heavier and hundreds of thousands of dollars deeper in debt for your “wonderful time” in college.

You thought it best not to talk to Shane, Lauren, Felix, or Liam about it. You were different people with different lives, dispersed across the country, reduced to the same tenuous information stream of upload, like, comment, delete, that marked out the birthdays and Christmases all the way through college, crappy internships, and even crappier entry-level jobs just to pay the rent. You’d meet up during the holidays, but the conversation flowed less and less easily, and someone was almost always missing. Sometimes it was Lauren, sometimes it was Amy, sometimes it was you, too ashamed to face them as the failure of the group. There has to be one, you just never thought it’d be you, but that’s a consequence of being friends with smarter, more driven people who went to ivy league colleges and networked, instead of playing to an audience of three people in sticky-floored bars.

Wise, kind, old Mrs Crane, who taught you piano in elementary school – back when your father had a steady job and swore he’d never sell the piano to pay the rent – said you could be a concert pianist and sell out Carnegie Hall. Mr Epstein – Eli – the curly-haired postgrad student who taught you piano in middle school to pay his rent said you could’ve been on _American Idol_ and won. In high school, your father had to sell the piano and that was that. Professor Maier taught you Literary and Cultural Translation, and said you could go work at the US Embassy as a simultaneous interpreter. You already knew Spanish, Portuguese, and a little French. When it came to picking languages to study further in college, French won out, because the other two felt easy, not too much of a challenge. Your “natural aptitude” as she put it, meant you learned German, Italian, and Greek by ear, thanks to your time living in the same house with a bunch of international students in your second and third year of school, mostly from cooking shows and pop songs.

Your decision not to go to France along with Ingrid and Marcello is the only real regret you have from that time. At least, it’s the only one you’ll openly admit to.

And yet, there you were at Whole Foods, being slowly driven insane by the beep, beep, beep, of scanning food and Creepy Chris’ announcements on the crackling PA system, barely chipping away at that mountainous debt. The only person you wanted to talk to about it all, over cheap beers while you watched trashy TV, you couldn’t, because she was off being happy and successful. Without you. In spite of you.

Eventually, you _had_ to make friends at work just to stop yourself from dying of boredom. That friend was part of your eventual escape plan. Her name was Cherry Malone – yes, really – she had a peroxide blonde pixie cut, piercings, and a tattoo of a pin-up girl on her left arm. She took you out drinking, you ended up going to watch her do roller derby and play keys for her riot grrrl band. Any second, you expected Michael Cera to appear from nowhere, ready to be the love interest in the filmic post-collegiate nightmare you were wading through. Michael Cera never showed up, but it didn’t much matter, not when you had Cherry. You bonded over how much you loathed your job, and Austin, and every plaid-shirted hipster with a lumberjack beard who came in asking for soy milk, whining about free radicals and radiation from barcodes. Cherry was different to all the people you knew in college with their internships and overseas jobs who time had jettisoned from your life. People like Valentina and Marcello, and Amelie and Ingrid, who were once everything to you had become, well, nothing. Twenty-three was a blur. Cherry took you out to bars and danced to unironically to Katy Perry and Taylor Swift. Cherry introduced you to a lot of things, including hard liquor and what it was like to kiss a girl with a tongue stud. You dyed your hair stoplight red and pierced your nose. Cherry let you sit on her bed in her tiny apartment and cry over Amy, but never once interrogated you about her or those kisses, somehow understanding what it meant to dance around a love affair and not know it was a love affair until that lover was long gone. Cherry’s attention made you feel magical and special, but everything about it was temporary, transitory, the side mission in your game of life. Cherry was there to teach you something. Fly in and fly out again.

Flying, as it turned out, was the final part of your escape.

On another Wednesday, right after Cherry left for California with the band to chase the promise a record deal, and you were back eating your grief when your mother put her laptop on the table, open on the American Airlines website. You told her you didn’t want to fly anywhere, and you didn’t want to be a girl in a band playing to five people for the rest of your life. She reminded you how you’d always ‘wanted to travel’ tapping the screen. It wasn’t for a holiday, it was for a job. To be a flight attendant. You practically heard the choir of angels when you read the application notice. It was a do or die moment, just like Amy and film school all those years ago. Flight attendants couldn’t have red hair or a nose stud, so you dyed your hair back to sensible chocolate brown – as close to your natural colour as you’d been in years. Your father reasoned that flight attendants also couldn’t be called Karma, so you defaulted to your other ‘sensible’ given name that your grandparents had insisted upon when you were born: Katherine. Kate for short.

Kate Ashcroft, it turns out, had a much better life than Karma. Kate was well turned out with perfect hair and a perfect, brilliant, toothpaste commercial smile with the sunniest of dispositions. Kate was good at her job. Kate was one of American’s top flight attendants. Kate, along with Gia Costello, Tara Stanley, and Jessica Nicholson were the company’s brightest, their best, their most requested, the passenger favourites.

Kate saw the world, switching between languages as she racked up flying miles. Kate got hit on by bartenders, and businessmen young pilots (and not so young ones) would take their numbers and sometimes call. Kate dated a cute blond pilot called Sam Locke who looked like something out of an A and F campaign and waltzed around like he was in _Top Gun_ , aviators and all. People started to say _KateAndSam_ , all in one breath, just like they used to about _KarmaAndAmy_. It didn’t feel the same.

Kate got another group of friends where she wasn’t the failure. For Tara, Gia, and Jess, she was the benchmark. She was the one who they called upon for help. Who they partied with, and got drunk with, and danced with, and hooked up with for fun. Kate got another Cherry, called Gia who became her closest, most trusted friend. You’d hook up with her and it wouldn’t send you barrelling into a pit of despair. Sex was fun. Sex was amazing. Sex was satisfying. Sex with women was all those things and more. Tara taught you how to order cocktails, buy good shoes, and that The Mile High Club wasn’t a myth. Kate understood, finally, that it was OK to be attracted to guys and girls (sometimes at the same time). Jess taught you that all women – even straight ones – like compliments, and how to do quick makeup routines that survive long hauls and red eye flights so little girls in departure lounges end up looking at you like you’re a cross between an angel and a Disney princess. Kate got photographed for the company magazine. The epitome of all American stood for.

But then, something changed. Quite suddenly and without your consent.

Kate got bored of seeing the same departure lounges and hotel rooms. Kate got tired of the bartenders, and the businessmen, and the pilots. Kate got bored of bars and hook-ups when she wasn’t so afraid of being hit on by women anymore. Kate wanted a home, not an apartment that was more like a luggage store. Kate got lonely, but was terrified of leaving all those wonderful friends behind. Kate wanted to keep them and reconnect with her old friends too.

Kate wanted to be Karma again.

And so, here you are, back in Austin having left another life behind. Again. You worked out your notice, pretending that you’d land, cash in some vacation days to extend the layover and then start again, originally scheduled on a flight to Zurich along with Tara at Captain Burdett’s request. You did see Captain Burdett – Mark, your favourite pilot and the closest thing to a surrogate father – again for drinks and a farewell dinner organised by Gia, Tara and Jess. The outpouring of love and warm wishes you received came as something of a surprise. Gia always said you were American’s golden girl, but you never believed it until that night. It made leaving harder, especially when you had to help her find a new roommate and try packing up your stuff without getting weepy and nostalgic. You failed on both fronts. Your entire life now fits in one large box and a suitcase. You travel light these days. Handing back your uniform was a strangely bittersweet moment. You loved how it made you feel – powerful and important – you loved dressing up every day and looking immaculate with never a hair out of place. Without that, you didn’t even feel like Kate anymore, but Karma doesn’t really fit you either, so it’s sticking for now.

You’re not as lost or lonely as the first time you came here, but you are grieving, wondering if you’re crazy for turning your back on everyone and everything. Gia and the other girls are still in constant contact, Tara and Jess still hope to woo you back, but Gia knows the truth of it and understands why you needed to walk away. She knows all the ugly things about Amy and Liam, and everything before and after, but mostly, like Cherry, you’d talk to Gia about Amy. With her for company, you’d try and piece things together in airport lounges and bars over ridiculously overpriced drinks, hoping clarity would descend before the effects of jetlag and/or drunkenness felled you completely. It never did.

Roughly two months after that Facebook request came an email, different to all the polite texts that suggested coffee and dinner whenever you could make it work (you never could). It was a legitimate invite to Amy’s first gallery show, two days after your last flight, held at the fancy glass-fronted gallery she used to work at as an intern in her last year of high school making the boss coffee.

It was her homecoming as well as yours.

 _To: katherine.ashcroft@gmail.com_  
From: amy@radfilms.com  
Subject: An invitation.

 

_Kate (it’s strange to call you that, but I kind of like it)._

_I’m not sure where you are right now, or where you are in the world even – your Instagram tells me its Berlin. I hope it’s nice – but I wondered if you’re going to be in Austin anytime soon? I have my first gallery show at The Austin Contemporary on the 20th, and I’d really love it you could come. I know you’re really busy and it’s a big ask given what happened between us, but I’d really like to catch-up. Maybe we could go for dinner if you have time? I think I can stretch to more than sharing burgers and shakes these days!_

_Seriously though, we keep missing chances and I’d really like to be a part of your life again. I hate that we lost touch. The show might be a good place for us to start. Step one, maybe?_

_Hope to hear from you soon._

_Amy x_

 

_Amy Raudenfeld_  
_Photographer, filmmaker, and visual artist._  
_www.radfilms.com_

 

Just like the last time, Gia was part of the decision making process, and you waited until two in the morning – bolstered by red wine and Gia’s encouragement, frantically pacing around the apartment as you typed, testing out different phrasing – before you dared to send a reply. Each line was cautiously crafted, with just the right amount of hope. You kept up the lie about the layover in Austin because you’d told it so many times to your parents and Zen and anyone else who wasn’t Gia, Tara, Jess, or Sam, that it was easy to keep up.

 

 _To: amy@radfilms.com_  
From: katherine.ashcroft@gmail.com  
Subject: RE: An invitation.

 

_Amy,_

_Kate’s not so weird to me anymore!_

_As it happens, I actually am in Austin then. I have layover with a few days vacation owing, so I’m going to use it to catch up before I’m scheduled on a flight to Zurich. I don’t make it home that often, so it works out great. I’d love to come. Thank you for the invite. I’ll be coming off a long haul, so I don’t know if I’ll be great company, but it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, we definitely can’t miss this opportunity._

_A lot did happen to us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends again, does it? We were young, and stupid, and now we’re – supposedly – older and wiser, so I think it’s time we start again. I’ll be in Austin until the 25th, so that’s plenty of time to schedule dinner etc. Send along the details._

_Look forward to seeing you soon._

_K._

_p.s. an Austin burger and shake sounds really good right now. I’m homesick for the first time in a long time._

 

A half hour or so later, you received a fancy looking e-vite to print out and take with you. In all its heavily designed, yet minimalist glory. You assume it was the gallery who chose to market her in this uber cool, clean, hip way, but you couldn’t help thinking how it lacked something – authenticity, soul, any real trace of the Amy you once knew – aside from her handwritten signature at the bottom of the page. You’d recognise the flourishes on the ‘A’ of Amy and the ‘R’ of Raudenfeld anywhere, sloped, sweeping, beautiful.

It wasn’t quite an olive branch, but it felt like one.

You really _do_ want to be part of Amy’s life, to hear about her success first hand rather than seeing snatches of interviews on TV in airport lounges, clips on YouTube, or in glossy magazine profiles read by your passengers during flights. One of your proudest (but saddest) moments was recognising her face and telling Sam that you ‘knew her in high school’ when a flight to Telluride in Colorado coincided with the film festival. You never got to see her then like you hoped you might. In fact, you and Sam never even left the hotel room. You ended that trip crying in the bathroom, overwhelmed, because Amy was so much _more_ than a girl you knew in high school and you didn’t know how to begin to tell him the truth. So, you did what you always do: you lied by omission and distracted him with sex since it was the first flight you’d been scheduled on together in months. A happy accident.

It was the last time you and Sam were together. Just like Seth, it ended much the same way it began: with an argument. This time it wasn’t over who threw all your laundry out of the washer, or if he was looking at that girl with the pretty smile sitting alone in the departure lounge. It was his complete refusal to commit to anything and take you home to meet his well-heeled Rhode Island family. You were good enough, you were smart enough. You deserved more. You agreed to be friends – you still are, and he’s much better at it than he ever was as a boyfriend – and walked away with your head held high, not shedding another tear over him.

The only tears you shed were over wasted time, wasted love, wasted energy, and wasted opportunities.

Austin has never really seemed like the right venue for a second chance – or really a third if you’re counting the Whole Foods Era – but it feels like that now, walking around this gallery, champagne glass in hand, surrounded by mostly unfamiliar faces as you weave your way through Amy’s exhibition. You’ve smiled politely, shook hands, and made small talk, perused the glossy catalogue while sipping on champagne, slotting in with small groups of people to stand and look at the photographs, tilting your head appreciatively and nodding along when they offer their analysis. You feel a little out of place, like this world isn’t yours, but then you shrug it off, feeling the dim flicker of recognition come across you when you see someone or something familiar in the photographs.

Everything here, in varying degrees, sets off a memory. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it's bad; a shard slicing through your consciousness, stirring up things you thought long since forgotten. The title of the show is F R A G M E N T S, stylised with spaces, and you can’t help but think how fitting it is. Not all of these photographs work together. They’re disparate by nature, because Amy’s like that, she sees interesting things everywhere in everything and everyone. Some of these photos compete loudly for attention, while others are quieter, easy to pass by were it not for the composition or the play with light you recognise as Amy’s vision of the world.

You could arrange the whole collection a thousand different ways and get a thousand different meanings, but there’s still an air of mystery about it. Amy once told you she thought a picture should tell a story, but not always the whole story, sometimes part of it is enough. The rest of it is “a secret between you and the subject.” The way she smiled at you as she said it, standing watching the magic alchemy in Mr Whitmore’s tiny darkroom at school as the photographs developed, bathed in unearthly red, you knew it was the best kind of secret. The unsaid, the not knowing, is what’s making people stand in awe, drawn to her like bees to honey, flocking to the well-dressed gallery assistants to stake their claim and purchase it, the frame marked with a stark red sticker.

To you, they’re more than beautifully composed black and white photographs, suspended on thin metal wires, placed against the backdrop of the gallery’s clean, white minimalist decor. They’re things you remember in vivid colour: Pride marches you tagged along on with Shane, and Amy, and the GSA kids, carrying banners with them to be the best friend and ally you could; graffiti on the wall at the back of the math building at Hester; a wise old man sitting on the steps outside the only Seven-Eleven that didn’t check ID’s. Click. Click. Click. For the early work like that when you were still in high school, you sometimes don’t remember Amy taking the picture, you remember what happened around it. You remember Amy’s face when her dad gave her his favourite Nikon. You remember trawling around the little stores downtown looking for a vintage Leica. You remember the smile on her face when Mr Whitmore showed her how different actual film looked to digital, holding up the same graffiti picture that’s now feet away from you, claimed by a handsome spectacled man who looks like he should be in a telenovela, enthusing in lightly accented English. He reminds you of the men in Madrid.

It’ll probably end up in some overpriced loft in Manhattan. A conversation piece for a dinner party because he’s supported a new, female artist. It’s the kind of thing your business class passengers buy their wives to make them look cultured. Divorced from its context like that, it’s little more than pretty, and you can’t help but feel sad that the photographs are being separated. You feel a strange sort of kinship with them. Your dress – fitted, elegant, a deep purple – makes you stand out in all this monochrome. It’s like you’re intruding somehow. Welcome, but unwelcome. Even the tall gallery receptionist who greeted you looked at you like you came from outer space as she took your coat and put it on the rail doubling as a check, passing you a small ticket in return.

You made a point of picking an outfit that was simple, but sophisticated. That’s your style now, honed over the years. A million miles from the boho chic you used to love in high school. Partly out of habit, you put your hair up in a bun – pinned and smooth – just like you used to for working in business class. Your makeup and jewellery is light, and you’re only wearing the barest hint of perfume. It’s not something you think often, but standing in your childhood bedroom, looking at your reflection in the mirror, surrounded by faded polaroid photographs of you and Amy, you were proud of the woman staring back at you in her expensive dress and heels. You wanted to make an effort, but _not_ make an effort either. There are no guarantees here, it could just be an evening of polite conversation over drinks and then dinner some other day. Truthfully, you don’t really know what you want out of this beyond getting over the awkward formality that’s somehow part of your adult relationship with Amy. You don’t really have the right to want anything, you have no idea if she with someone or not. Her social media profiles don’t allude to anything like that, she’s still a very private person.

The brief chat you had with Lauren earlier in the evening gave away nothing.

In between all the “you look amazing,” and “it’s so good to see you,” and “how are you?” and the hugging, there wasn’t much room to talk about Amy. Lauren looked good, really good, talking a mile-a-minute about working with InterACT Youth in real, serious terms, never once using the phrase ‘lifestyle brand.’ Then, this blissfully happy, strangely mellow Lauren flashed her monster engagement ring, and introduced to you her fiancé, Grant Maddox, a journalist, looking at him adoringly the whole time he spoke. They’re nauseatingly perfect, and he looks a real salt of the Earth type, kind, genuine. Like something right out of a Nicholas Sparks novel. He’s exactly the kind of guy your younger self would’ve _killed_ to date, never thinking they actually existed, and yet, you couldn’t feel anything but happiness for her.

At least someone got their happy ending.

Her warmth came as a surprise, but her parting shot of, “Amy will be pleased to see you,” after exchanging numbers came as an even bigger one. You’re the only people here who grew up with her, Shane, Felix, and Liam couldn’t make it, but you know from snatches of other conversations you overheard, that Liam bought one of the pictures for the Skwerkelplex. Lauren seemed to think it was a genuine gesture rather than some huge expression of vanity to make up for not being able to attend in person.

That too, was a surprise.

You’re sipping on the last of your second glass of champagne, caught between finally taking one of the tiny hors d'oeuvres selection plates being offered by the neverending stream of waiters working the room and bailing completely, until your phone buzzes in your clutch bag. You’re suddenly relieved when you realise the last group of people you drifted toward has moved on to another photo without you.

Just like she promised she would, Gia has been texting periodically to check in on you ever since you left your parents house earlier this evening. She’s packing for Zurich, stepping in to take your place, waiting for her cab to the airport. She offered to come and be your legitimate plus one, just to bolster your confidence, create some mystery and intrigue, but you said no. This meeting, whenever it happens, has to be on your terms, just you and Amy.

 

 **Gia (9:18 PM):  
** Did you speak to her yet?

 **Kate (9:18 PM):  
** No. It’s crazy busy.

 **Gia (9:19 PM):**  
That’s good right? People need to buy her shit.  
Go Amazing Amy!

 

You smile. The small talk is getting exhausting, and it’s so loud in here you can barely hear yourself think. All the crosstalk and the laughter is melding into one cacophonous wall of noise. You’re grateful for the distraction, not realising how much you needed another message until it came.

It’s so typical of her to spin it like that. She’s called her ‘Amazing Amy’ for as long as you can remember, because she said once that’s how you always described her. Amazing. The most amazing, smart, thoughtful, creative person you’ve ever known. A nice sound bite. A fragment of the story, just like these photographs. She’s right though, it _is_ important the show is a success, that the gallery and Amy make money of this, and you’ve never been prouder than the moment you walked in and saw the space, filled with people, but then you realised they wanted to see her too. You’re just someone she used to know, not a critic or a journalist, a press photographer, or a potential buyer. Even with your savings you can barely afford the prices her work commands these days.

 

 **Kate (9:20 PM):**  
I can’t even see her, G.  
I can barely hear myself think.  
This was stupid. I’m leaving.

 **Gia (9:21 PM):**  
All I hear there is bullshit excuses, Ash.  
So what if the place is rammed or if it’s full of exes?  
She invited you, dumbass.

 

You’ve got no answer.

Sometimes you find it hard to believe that Gia actually has the job she does. When she’s at work, she’s friendly, but professional. People are drawn to her warmth and her wit. When she’s not working she’s still all those things, but she curses like a sailor, is the most outrageous flirt, playful, mischievous, and the worst of influences. Especially when she and Tara are together. You’re going to miss that.

 

 **Gia (9:22 PM):**  
Anyway, you saw Lauren already.  
How long is it going to be before  
Amy finds out you’re there?  
You always said Lauren  
could never keep her mouth shut.  
Man up!

 

She’s right. Lauren _has_ to have told her. She must know by now.

 

 **Kate (9:23 PM):**  
Fine. I’ll stay. Try and find her.  
A hello is better than nothing right?

 

The longer you’re here your expectations for what will happen get lower and lower, and the less likely it seems you and Amy will find each other in this packed room. That never used to be a problem. You just seemed to sense her somehow, spotting her easily at house parties, standing awkwardly with a red solo cup in hand. You feel a lot like that awkward image you have of Amy right now, for all your progress and all your practiced ease in social situations. Your time at American taught you how to work a room well, to listen and interpret needs and wants, but here, the signals are mixed, the motivations less clear.

 

 **Gia (9:23 PM):**  
Oh hey, Adele! JFC. Have I taught you nothing?  
Go get your woman. This is not grade school.

 **Kate (9:23 PM):**  
Ass. I hate you.  
Amy’s not my woman.  
She’s not anything.

 **Gia (9:24 PM):**  
Liar. Seriously babe. Just go talk to her.  
Have some drinks, see what happens.

 **Gia (9:24 PM):**  
Don’t waste this. Please? I know you’re not happy.  
Before you come at me saying ‘Amy’s got nothing to  
do with my happiness.’ Just think about who you’ve  
let go of because they weren’t her.

 

Gia’s sincerity is surprising and you’re thrown, not knowing how to answer. She doesn’t usually text things like that. She doesn’t usually _say_ things like that until you’re at least three drinks in. This really could be the last opportunity you have to start working towards being friends with Amy again, and maybe get back what you’ve lost. Occasional emails, texts, and comments on social media posts aren’t enough. They’ll never be enough for you and her.

 

 **Kate (9:27 PM):**  
I know. I don’t want to ruin everything again.

 **Gia (9:27 PM):**  
You’ll never know if you keep wasting chances.  
Stop freaking out. Stop psyching yourself out.  
Go. Find. Her.

 

You sigh, knowing she’s right. Again. You choose not to reply, slipping your phone into your clutch instead. When a waiter passes you take another drink, downing half in one go. Courage. All night you’ve been seeing flashes of that familiar dirty blonde, wondering if it’s her, hearing her laughter, and perhaps her voice; talking in the same cool, measured, but impassioned and articulate way you’ve seen online. Maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks because you’re so desperate for this huge Technicolor movie scene reunion.

And then, you hear her. Unmistakably. _Amy._

“I’m sorry, that photograph isn’t for sale.”

In seven words you hear the only reason you needed to stay in the room. 


	2. Risen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amy and Karma finally reconnect at the gallery show, and Karma finds that while a lot of things have changed, just as many have stayed the same.
> 
> _“You both know where this is going.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6825664). I wasn’t going to post this so early, but after today, I know you guys deserve more than MTV are willing to give. I know this can’t replace seeing Karmy on the TV, but I hope it makes the possibility of losing them a little less hurtful, if only for a little while.
> 
>  **ETA:** If you want to make your voice heard re: MTV’s cancellation decision please tweet them, tell them what _Faking It_ means to you and what it means to lose it. For those of you that don’t tweet, please sign and share **[this](https://www.change.org/p/mtv-let-mtv-faking-it-continue?recruiter=282919541&utm_source=petitions_show_components_action_panel_wrapper&utm_medium=copylink) ** petition. 

You crane to see her in the gathered crowd, finally compelled to move forward. Your glass, now empty, goes on another passing waiter’s tray. You tuck your clutch under your arm, smooth your hair, checking your reflection in the mirrored wall opposite, and finally go. She’s holding court, a light blush colouring her features as everyone around her heaps on their praise. She looks ... Amazing, beyond beautiful in dress pants and a blazer, and the barest hint of a striped t-shirt underneath. It looks effortless, chic, accessorised with gold and flashes of Louboutin red, just like you. She looks serious, like the women she used to look up to. Mr Whitmore used to say she’d be Austin’s answer to Annie Leibowitz or Kathryn Bigelow. She looks just like them. The same man who claimed the graffiti photograph is next to her, clinking his glass with hers. She smiles, touching his arm, and then looking to his left, brightening when she turns her attention to a tall blonde woman. You remember seeing her on Amy’s Instagram. Lydia Grace Holland. The cool, sophisticated woman who used to run her ragged as an intern. Now it looks like they’re friends. Maybe they’re more than friends.

The fact that Amy could be with someone now hadn’t crossed your mind. Lydia’s wearing an engagement ring. Your heart sinks. How could you have been so foolish? So completely _fucking_ oblivious to the life Amy’s made for herself that’s entirely separate to yours. She doesn't need you anymore. She doesn’t _want_ you anymore. So much for your emotional growth and worldly-wise outlook. You’re still the same, stupid, selfish girl you’ve always been.

You turn away, looking for the nearest exit when you hear Amy calling out.

“Karma?”

You don’t want to stop walking, but the sheer strangeness of hearing her say that pierces through everything. Then, it gets louder and closer, and she remembers what she should be calling you instead.

“Kate?”

That sounds uncertain, foreign, like when you were little girls and Amy said having two names made you sound like a superhero. She tested it out a few times KATH-ER-RINE, and then K-A-T-E, but quickly found she liked saying K-A-R-M-A a whole lot more. Falling from her lips, surrounded by your dolls in the middle of an afternoon playing princess, your name didn’t sound weird, it sounded wonderful and magical. It sounded like you. Once you heard that, it didn’t matter whether people teased you or asked a million stupid questions, no one would call you Katherine or Kate again. Karma. Always Karma.

Until now. Until American Airlines. Until you didn’t have Amy to say it anymore.

Finally, you do stop, frozen to the spot because you have no other choice. Immediately you know the feeling, the attention of the room has redirected itself entirely towards you. Letting out a long, unsteady breath, you turn on your heels and face her forcing yourself to smile. It’s the same practiced smile you reserved for your passengers with just the right degree of warmth.

“Hi.”

Eight years and all you can manage is one syllable. The room rearranges itself again; conversations you were sure came to a grinding halt begin again, alongside the bad jazz elevator music that’s been playing all night long on a loop. You assume it’s being played ironically.

She smiles. Brilliantly. Beautifully.

Something in you aches when she moves closer and says, “You came, I didn’t think you would,” and then, embarrassed and desperate to backpedal when she adds, “Wait that sounded wrong.”

You both laugh nervously.

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admit, your grip on the exhibition catalogue tightening.

You have no idea why you’re choosing to be so truthful. Lies were never a good thing where Amy’s concerned.

Then, quite suddenly, Amy wraps you in a hug. Even though you’re stiff in her arms, it catches you off-guard and the catalogue gets crushed between you like some weird buffer, it’s exactly what you needed her to do, and you didn’t even know it until it happened. With your eyes closed, arm wrapped around her, it feels like there’s no one else in this room

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers. “Really glad,” she repeats, stepping back.

“Me too,” slips out quickly. Amy looks surprised but hides it well.

All the anxiety and the nervousness that’s been tying you up in knots all day has unravelled completely. The invisible weight you’ve been carrying all this time is slowly starting to lift, little by little. If you had made it to the exit, you’re not sure how you would’ve dealt with the fallout anyway.

When she speaks again, her voice is louder, more confident, like you’ve been hearing all night. “I wanted you to see this. You’re such a big part of it all.”

Your immediate reaction is to say ‘I am?’ but you hold back because it seems conceited. In the end you go with, “I’m so proud of you,” because you are.

No matter what’s happened between you, she’s doing what she loves and doing it well. How can you do anything _but_ be proud of her? You move forward when she invites you to with gentle sweep of her hand. Over the next few minutes you get introduced to lots of people at whirlwind speed. They nod and smile, just like they did before, but it’s different now. Amy’s made you important; she’s made you matter to them.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, standing next to a small bar setup in the corner of the gallery, you get introductions with Lydia (who’s much nicer now than you ever remember Amy saying), Gabriel, the Spanish guy who bought the picture (Lydia’s fiancé, a writer, so that put the girlfriend theory to rest), and another guy from the gallery, Dan, who co-curated the show with Amy (who reminds you of Felix so much it’s like he’s here). It's easy to see why he and Amy collaborate so well. Wordlessly, she offers you a cosmopolitan, freshly shaken by an alarmingly handsome bartender. As soon as you take it, you realise it’s the first time she’s gotten you a legal drink. It’s a strange little landmark. You move off when Amy does, with no real idea of where you’re going, happy to be carried along a little, slotting in easily with Lydia, Gabriel and Dan.

They’re kind and curious, full of questions, but it doesn’t feel invasive. All the “nice to meet yous” and “what do you dos” just make you feel important. When you say you’re a flight attendant (you thankfully remember to omit the word ‘former’ and Gabriel looks the most impressed) you feel more comfortable, like you’re meant to be here. You’re not just here anymore either, you’re with Amy. Well, you’re not _with_ Amy, but you’re different to most of the other guests assembled here. The cosmo is good. Farrah used to make mocktail versions of these at her summer barbecues. You used to think they were the height of sophistication. Later, you found out they weren’t really, Carrie Bradshaw had lied to you, but you still like them, particularly with the added kick of vodka now you’re old enough to drink.

“Do you remember this?” she asks indicating the picture in front of you.

It’s the one she won’t sell, and now you can see it close up you immediately know why. It’s one of the first pictures she ever took. It’s of you – a very young you, wearing a complicated braid for pictures day in junior year.

“I remember that I didn’t know you were taking it!” you comment, glancing over at her with a smile you hope is warm.

“That’s why I had to,” she offers, with a shrug.

The assembled group that surrounds you grows and murmurs their approval.

“It’s a beautiful picture, one of my favourites, actually,” Dan declares, sincerely.

“Thank you. I can’t take all the credit though,” you pause to sip your drink, mouth suddenly dry. Twenty people are hanging on your every word. “She’s a fantastic photographer.”

“She’s beautiful,” Amy counters. “She made it very easy,” she adds, glancing over at you.

Her gaze lingers a little too long. It’s you that glances away with a shy, “I’m not so sure about that,” touching your hair self-consciously while Dan and everyone else disagrees, and someone launches into a huge conversation about framing and composition.

Even though she’d talk about girls around you, she’s never talked about you like that before. It’s strange. A good kind of strange that stirs things you haven’t felt in a long time, or more precisely, things you haven’t _let_ yourself feel about _her_ in a long time. The group starts to split and disperse into new formations and you’re just left standing with Amy, still looking at this photograph of your younger self, captured completely, but unaware of that capturing. It’s strange. That girl looks nothing and everything like the woman you’ve become.  

“You look good,” Amy comments after a moment, when she knows no one is really listening but you. “This,” she pauses to indicate your outfit with a sweep of her arm. “This is different. I like it,” and then she taps a finger to her hair. “The colour suits you. Always did.”

“Thanks,” you smile. “You look pretty amazing yourself.”

“Yeah?” she replies, almost bashful, glancing down at her shoes. “I think I make the suits work, but these will never not be a pain.”

“A pretty gorgeous pain though,” you note, and she smiles too.

“Guess this is what they mean when they say people suffer for their art,” she jokes.

You laugh, you _really_ laugh. It’s not nervous and it’s not polite, it’s just real. It’s a relief. After everything, it’s still easy and simple to be with her now those first jitters of nerves have subsided and there’s alcohol to smooth over things and soften the world’s edges.

“Speaking of that art,” you begin, waiting until she’s looking at you again before carrying on, “these photos are stunning, really. I always knew you were talented, but _wow_.”

“Thank you,” she nods, slowly, shyly. “Coming from you, that means a lot. More than all the people here that are supposed to matter,” she continues, leaning closer as she indicates the critics and reporters dotted around.

“I mean it,” you affirm, looking her straight in the eyes. “Really.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

You want to say more than that, but you’re not sure what. Right now, you’re kind of content not to talk, and just _be_ with her, as much as you can when everyone in this room is interested in having some of her attention.

“It’s still one of my favourite pictures you know.”

“It is?” you can't even hide your surprise. The fact that she hasn’t burned everything in existence with your face on it is kind of a revelation.

“Absolutely,” she replies, without the slightest hesitation. “Dan wanted to include it for the longest time, but I fought him. It felt too personal, too much, and I didn’t feel like I could, but then, he said something that made me realise it was wrong not to have it here.”

“What did he say?”

She turns to face you for the first time. “He said you wouldn’t understand any of the other pictures if this one wasn’t included. For the critics, you get where my style comes from,” she smirks, making air quotes around the word style. “But, for me, if I didn’t include you, I’d be denying how important you were – you _are_ – to me, my life, my work. It all traces back.”

You don’t like to think what other kind of fragments she could’ve been talking about and what they might be made of.

“Amy, I ... ” you trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence, or even if you can.

“Every artist has a muse, I guess,” she says, with a clarity you’ve never heard her use before. She’s not afraid of her feelings anymore.

“I guess,” you echo, looking at her much longer than you really should.

This time, she doesn’t glance away or go barrelling in the other direction. She stands with you, and your hands brush as she slides hers back into her pocket. The brief contact sends a thrill up your spine, just like it always did, but this time, you’re not so scared of what will happen if you give in to the tension that’s building between you - that heavy electricity that’s always been between you. Now, you’re curious, so curious.

“How about a guided tour?” you venture. “I mean, if you’re not busy, I know there are a lot of important people here,” you add quickly, feeling like you’re asking too much of her already.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she beams. “There’s so much I want to show you.”

“Great,” you answer far too quickly, annoyed at yourself for sounding too eager, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Well, this is one way for us to catch up, isn’t it? Sure saves you having to listen to me ramble on all night,” she says, motioning for you to move on.

“I don’t mind,” you blurt out. Somewhere, your teenage self is cringing. “I mean, I want to hear about it. I want to know about New York, and your films, and everything really.”

“How about I show you instead?” she’s smiling now, bursting with excitement.

You nod, feeling her hand press gently into the small of your back, guiding you toward a picture of what you think is of Bushwick, New York. The same feeling washes over you again when you feel her fingertips on your skin. The back of your dress is cut low, too low maybe, barely covering the tattoo you got on a whim with Tara during your time in Grenada a few years ago. Lifetimes ago. Amy’s hand stays there for the most part, guiding you around the gallery, pointing out her favourite pictures, telling you a story or two that’s different from the brief catalogue blurbs. Honestly, it’s nice to hear her talk. It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to do it. She’s always been passionate and articulate, fiercely intelligent, but it’s different now. When she was younger, she would falter and second-guess herself, but now, she’s confident in her ideas. Her worldview is much the same, but how she expresses those ideas is different. She tells you about New York and her NYU friends, Alex and Kier, who helped her set up her production company, part of her goto filmmaking team. They’re working on other projects so they couldn’t be here. A candid picture, much like the one of you, stands in for them. You wish you could meet them, just because of how Amy talks about them, with such humour and such warmth.

They could tell you more about New York Amy. They could tell you things she’s not brave enough to yet.

She tells you about living in Portland, photographing the music scene after graduation, living with her college roommates Amanda and Sarah, who make up the rest of the Rad Films creative team, bouncing from job to job, making little money. You remember them from her Instagram, but you don’t tell her that; pretty, edgy girls with pastel-dyed hair and piercings. She says you’d like them, she thinks. Every time you imagined what Amy’s life was like, you hoped it would be something like this. You hope you will meet them someday because she makes them sound really cool, and like your kind of people. It doesn’t feel like the right time or the right place to tell her about Gia, Tara, and Jess. The American years feel so far removed from this, you need time and space to explain it, preferably where hundreds of people can’t hear you.

Despite everything, you wanted for her to be happy, to find her place in the world and you’re happy she has.

Later, with a fresh cosmo in hand, she shows you her work from Telluride, and tells you about the buzz surrounding her student film, _Under the Skin_ , about displaced LGBT youth. You remember the interview on the TV and the clip with the sweet, lost, young girl made homeless by her religious parents. That girl’s picture is here along with a few others, petite, peroxide blonde, ripped jeans. It makes you think of Cherry even though Amy tells you her name is Jennifer. By the time she’s finished talking, you’re both on the verge of tears. She doesn't know what happened to Jennifer after the interviews in Portland. Her number got disconnected.

A sadness passes over her that you don’t have a name for.

“This is amazing,” you say, breathlessly. “You’re amazing. I’d love to see the film,” you declare all in one breath and much too quickly.

It’s a lie. You already saw it. You bought it from the Rad Films website using Gia’s name and credit card for the protection of anonymity on the day it got released, months after Telluride and Sam. You cried out of pride. You cried out of fear for seeing yourself in Jennifer and the other kids, and hearing their stories, never more thankful your parents are so loving and tolerant. You told your mother one day about Cherry and Tara. She wrapped you in the warmest hug humanly possible and said all she wanted was for you to “find your happiness,” seeming to think they embodied it.

They did, but it was a certain _kind_ of happiness. One that was built never to last; fleeting and wavering until it disappeared completely.

“Oh God,” she flushes. “It’s pretty shaky. I was young, we were young, but thank you.”

“You gave a voice to these kids, Amy. You gave them an outlet when most people would walk past them in the street.”

“That was my point, I guess, so I’m glad it came across, Alex’s bad camerawork aside. We were still learning.”

“Amy,” you say, touching her forearm needlessly. “I see you still haven’t learned to take a compliment?”

She shrugs. “My fatal character flaw. I need rewrites.”

“Everyone needs rewrites,” you reply, looking at her over the rim of your glass as you take another sip of cosmo. There’s less in there than you thought.

“I don’t know,” she tilts her head, looking at you quizzically. “This version of you looks pretty good. We’re only in the second act you know? Still time to change things if you’ve made mistakes.”

For a second, you wonder if she knows more than she lets on. The only thing your mothers’ ever had in common was their love of gossip, and Farrah always loved to talk about Amy’s achievements, even when those achievements were a failed yo-yo trick audition on _America’s Got Talent._ One of the last things you ever did was go to her themed party celebrating Amy’s acceptance into NYU. The whole house was decked out with violet decorations.

“Way too many deleted scenes already,” you sigh, and she frowns. “Long story.”

“Oh well now I’m about ten thousand times more interested than before,” she replies, with a smile.

“Not here,” you say, shaking your head. “Or at least, not now.”

“Oh really?”

“Really,” you offer, cryptically, and it only serves to pique her interest further.

“Definitely a keeper for later,” she replies, with a knowing look.

The way she says ‘later’ sends another kind of thrill through you. Though you’ve felt it all night on some level, there’s a more intimate mood between you. Her every word feels loaded, laced with something. She’s looking at you differently. It feels different to be looked at by her.

No one’s ever looked at you like that before.

You’re just about to ask her something else - the words ‘what are you doing later’ sit on the tip of your tongue. There are no rules and no curfew anymore - when you hear Amy shout a “hey,” when a waiter bumps into her. His tray is empty, but her hand isn’t, what remains of her cosmo ends up all over your dress when she collides with you in turn; her free hand resting on your hip to keep you from falling over.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, mortified. “Look where you’re going, asshole!” she adds, calling in the vague direction of the waiter’s retreating figure.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you assure, looking down at yourself. Thank god the dress isn’t white,” that’s all you can say, because your chest is pretty much covered. “I’m sure it’ll come out.”

“I feel so bad! Maybe we could get some paper towels for now to get the worst of it,” she offers, panicked. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

“Amy, it’s fine, really. Totally not the first time it’s happened to me. If the paper towels don’t work the hand dryer trick will,” you assure, hoping to make her feel a little better.

“OK, if you’re sure,” she replies, still looking incredibly guilty. “Bathroom’s this way.  It’s one of those fancy unisex ones.”

“Absolutely sure. Don’t look so terrified. It’s just a dress,” you laugh, following her toward the bathroom opposite. You miss the contact of her guiding hand.

The crowd seems to part the second she moves, eyes and attention swivelling back to you both once more. You smile politely; nod your thanks when they let you pass. It feels a long way. There are a lot of eyes watching.

“Karma, that’s not _just_ a dress.”

She’s right it isn’t. You blew a significant chunk of your last paycheck on it during a shopping trip with Gia. She called it a ‘fuck me’ dress. You’re not so sure about that now, but until a few moments ago, that was a pretty accurate description. The phrase ‘eye fucking’ hasn’t been in your vocabulary for a long time, but that’s the only way you can describe the way Amy’s been looking at you, and you her. But, instead of feeling strange or uncomfortable about it, you welcome it. You bask in her looking, and you don’t care what it means or what the clusters of still chattering people think about it all.

“God, I suck!” she continues, dramatically, slamming her hand against the bathroom door to open it.

It’s a relief when it closes again, shutting out the noise of the main gallery. The bathroom is pretty fancy, with huge banks of mirrors standing out against the white walls, three black cubicles and a matching vanity. Out of sheer habit, you fix your hair first before attending to the problem of your dress.

“Obviously, I’m still a klutz with shitty motor skills!” she continues, rushing to the towel dispenser and yanking out one after the other.

“Obviously,” you tease, turning around and leaning against the vanity, watching her as she comes closer.

“Here, let me see if I can get it,” she says, face etched with concern and ignoring your attempts to lighten the mood.

This is more like Amy you remember. Awkward and cautious, yet eager to please.

She looks like someone died right now, frantically dabbing at the stain with the wad of towels and it’s ridiculous. You don’t _care_. The only thing you _do_ care about is the fact that Amy’s close, so close you can feel her breath on your skin, and there’s no one else here to watch and comment upon it.

Screw the dress. Screw being polite, and adult, and wanting to make a good impression.

“Amy,” you say, waiting for her to actually look at you. “I really don’t care.”

“You don’t?” she asks, moving closer to you, tilting down. She’s still taller than you, even now.

You both know where this is going. This time, you’re not going to stop her.

“I don’t,” you reply, looking up at her.

When her lips finally press against yours, it’s not the sweet softness you were expecting – the softness you remember – it’s harder, more urgent, greedier, and there’s a huge rush of air as you surge forward, kissing her back just as urgent, just as greedy. It’s a surprise and no surprise at all. You’re dimly aware of the towels dropping to the floor, and her hands are on your hip again, pushing you back into the vanity. It’ll leave a bruise. Maybe. Hopefully. You want for some kind of mark, just for the proof. You keep kissing, trading fast pecks, and you find yourself biting on Amy’s bottom lip, snagging it briefly; a tease, a respite before she kisses you again, longer, deeper, and you reach up, arms wrapping around her neck the second her tongue curls into your mouth. She tastes of cosmos. The moan it elicits is indecent.

At that, Amy pulls away. For long seconds, you just stare at each other, the sound of your breathing; heavy, ragged, recovering, says everything you don’t have the words for. Everything like you didn’t kiss like that in high school. Everything like you feel light headed and drunk in a way that’s nothing to do with the champagne or cosmos. Everything like the fact that you wonder when this night will be over, and whether you’ll be alone in your bed or not. You’re not about to waste this chance, no matter what happens now. Your mouth is still close – too close – to hers, and you’re hovering on the edge of kissing her when you hear a knock on the door, quick and sharp. It startles you both and breaks whatever haze you’ve been in.

A decade later and you’re still getting interrupted when you’re on the verge of something more.

“Amy, are you in there?”

It’s Lydia.

“Fuck,” Amy breathes, burying her face in the crook of your neck. You’re not sure if that’s her heart you can feel beating or your own.

“Her timing really blows,” you sigh, glaring at the door, your arms dropping to your sides.

“Give me a sec, Lyds,” she answers, louder, flustered. “Karm-Kate, had a fashion emergency!”

You just about keep from smiling when she stumbles over your name. It’s kind of adorable.

“Sorry!” you add, playing along, and her relief is palpable.

It’s the truth, but it feels like a lie. She steps away from you, clearly frustrated at the interruption. Vain as it is, you like to know you still have an effect on her, that underneath it all, cool, confident, professional Amy, is still _your_ Amy. You keep seeing little flashes of that sweet, easily distracted, nervous, nerdy girl who flushes the deepest red you’ve ever seen, stumbles over simple words, and looks at you like you hung the moon.

“The guy from The Austin Chronicle is finally here,” Lydia informs, calmly. “He wants some pictures, few quotes. The usual.”

“Oh OK, great, be right with you,” Amy says, attempting not to sound as pissed as she looks. She steps closer again. It’s dangerous.

“Fine, just hurry the hell up before he drinks too much!”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I have to go, but, this whole thing is done in an hour,” she pauses, choosing her words carefully. “There’s an afterparty thing - some bar in East Austin,” she wrinkles her nose in disdain.

“Amy, it’s fine, really. Go, do your thing,” you reply, reaching out to smooth her shirt where it's ridden up, your knuckles briefly touch her skin, and she shudders at the contact.

It sounds finite, the way you’re saying it, but you both know this is a pause rather than a full stop on the evening because you’re both just going with this right now. You _need_ to go with this right now. Something else _will_ happen. Clearly, if Lydia hadn’t chosen that precise moment to knock, something else would have. You’re beyond frustrated, but you’ve wondered for ten years what it would be like to spend the night with Amy - all the whispered hallway gossip about Reagan and Sabrina grudgingly piqued your interest - so what does another hour matter?

“You’d be invited, but I’m not going,” she states, with a shrug.

“You’re not, why? Won’t they expect you to?”

You know why she’s not, it’s obvious, but part of you wants to hear her say it. You want to be seduced. School gossip told you she was good at that too.

“People expect a lot of things, Karm. I’m done being the _fucking_ performing seal. Once I talk to that press guy, that’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Not for you and me,” she replies, with this _look_ you’ve never seen before.

And then, the tension that dissipated as soon as Lydia appeared is back.

“Good,” you begin; finger crooked around one of the belt loops on her pants, “because the only person I’m interested in being with for the rest of the night is you.”

She smiles, but it’s not cute or sweet, it’s this _sexy_ kind of smirk. Heat spikes in your belly. You want her now even more than before. From the look on her face, she never expected you to be so bold. You never really did either. She seems to have belatedly inspired it in you.

Her only answer is another kiss, soft, but insistent, lingering a little, her hands framing your face.

Teenage you probably would’ve probably fled from this bathroom in a blind panic, but you’re not her anymore, so, you kiss Amy again for good measure, feeling like you’re staking some kind of claim - sealing the deal. She looks at herself in the mirror, fixes her hair and reaches into her pocket for a lipstick, reapplying it. For a moment, you just stand there, side by side, smiling, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous turn the evening’s taken. Then, without another word, she leaves; just opening the door wide enough to slip out, back into the gallery. You know what to do now, smoothing your hair and thanking god and M-A-C cosmetics for their long stay lip colours, while you run the faucet and dab half-heartedly at the drying evidence of the spilt drink. You’ll thank that waiter someday.  

It’s stupid to wait, you’re making it more obvious that you were both in here, but you don’t care. The women in this room can’t take their eyes off Amy. Sure, she’s certainly not as oblivious to her effect on women (and men) as she used to be, but you get a kick out of riling those women and making it seem like you and Amy are in the midst of some passionate affair. Let them gossip. Let them wonder. Let them be _jealous_. This whole episode has been more than you ever bargained for. A nice chat, some drinks, maybe a lunch date further down the line. But this? You never dared to think about a scenario like this. A scenario where you likely end the night in bed with her before the dinner and drinks. You never really were one for convention. Honestly, you’ve never been more turned on in your life and you’ve been around the block, in lust but never in love - and no one’s made you feel like this; made you want like this. Not even Tara, and you were pretty bonkers about her from day one.

Everything is different with Amy. It always has been.

 


	3. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the evening the gallery draws to a close, Karma and Amy decide to see where the night leads them.
> 
> _“This is for all the times you said no, but felt like saying yes.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6825664). Here it is folks, the final chapter, but not my final story for these two. The intimacy portrayed here fits the world I’ve created, but I also hope it’s still true to the characters. The situation they find themselves in is rather unique, so it calls for a unique experience. Thank you for your love and support on this one, I know it’s tough time in the fandom. This is my gift to you all. Click [here](http://8tracks.com/lazarusgirl/love-in-free-fall) to listen to a selection of songs that inspired the writing.

The hour or so you were separated from Amy while she talked to that journalist from the Chronicle and stood posing for yet more pictures seemed to crawl by, even with Gabriel’s company. In the end, she was made to go to that afterparty, and it’s been just as terrible as you thought it would be. The bar’s terrible, the music’s terrible, the drinks are terrible, and you hit your tolerance for “art people” as Gabriel calls them, long ago. He found you again sitting on your own in the corner. You wonder if Amy sent him, because of how pleased she looked when she glanced over to see you together. Watching from the margins with him, he watched Lydia and you watched Amy (but tried not to), while they talked with different groups of people. He told you that while he recognised some of them as bloggers and critics, most were regular gallery donors whose support kept it going. Most though, were fans of Amy’s work, seeking her out after failing to do so at the show. She looked over at you apologetically at every possible opportunity, , but you just smiled and waved, enormously proud. This was her night, she’d worked for it. She should enjoy it too.

It took longer than you thought for either of them to come back to the table you’d secured, and even then it was brief, with someone catching Amy’s arm and interrupting whatever conversation had barely started. The separation gave you time to doubt. The moment was slipping by, that maybe by the time you were properly reunited, Amy would’ve changed her mind, and your vision of stumbling into her apartment and ending up in her bed would never be realised. Fate never seems to go in your favour.

Gabriel told you it was nice to have a “kindred spirit” at events like these. You both appreciate art, but it’s different for Amy and Lydia; it’s their work, it’s their love. He’s been easy to talk to once you got over the awkwardness of the occasion forcing you together. Over the music, you could hear about his writing, his modest confession of being “quite famous,” for his poetry. You bonded over Lorca, and Neruda, and your trips to Madrid; you even told him about the fragments of songs written on hotel paper and in countless battered notebooks between flights and rare days off, and your attempts at recording with Garageband when he told you about his love for playing guitar.

Until he said you should try doing something with them, it’d never really occurred to you. Music had become something for fun, sidelined to a hobby while you tried to live that normal, adult, respectable life. It could be more than that, he’d said, if you were “willing to take the risk.” It was a casual remark, punctuated by him readjusting his glasses, but you know he meant more than those two-minute Garageband recordings.

So, you took that risk. You waited outside the club for Amy while the party started to wind down, ignoring every cab that stopped so you could take one with her instead. There were moments when you thought she _had_ left without you, turned her back on whatever that was in the bathroom, having come to her senses post-midnight as you paced up and down, hands buried in your coat pockets. But then, you felt a light tap on your shoulder, and there she was, looking at you. She asked you if you were ready, reminded you, soft in your ear that whatever happened would be “your choice,” and she understood if you’d changed your mind. You hadn’t of course. If anything, the passing time just seemed to intensify everything. You wanted her. You made that want known when you pulled her into the dark of the alley next to the club, kissing her fiercely, deeply, pressed tight against the brick. Cabs came and went, their lights briefly illuminating your surroundings. It was answer enough.

When the next cab came, you took it, racing hand-in-hand to climb inside before it left with other passengers, giddy and breathless, not caring for consequence.

You’ve been travelling for the past twenty minutes or so, sitting closer in the cab than is really necessary, Amy’s hand resting idly in the thin strip of space that separates you. Every so often, she’ll touch your arm when she shifts in her seat or reaches in her coat pocket for her phone. Every so often, you risk moving your own hand closer to hers, fingertips brushing, losing your nerve when your phone buzzes in your clutch. Whenever the driver turns, her knee brushes against your bare leg. The dress you’re wearing isn’t made to sit in, it’s far, _far_ too short, and every time you reach a stoplight, Amy looks over at you in this _way_ that you can’t mistake for anything but want in her eyes, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She wants to touch you, and you want her to touch you, and you wish she’d just let her hand drop to your thigh and … No, it can’t be in this cab, not when the driver can see. You shift in your seat, uncomfortably turned on by all this looking, unnecessary touching, and the pointed yet elegant way Amy keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. You can’t even _see_ them well because she’s wearing pants, but you’re sure they were never that toned before.

Every so often, you’ll look up at the driver framed in the tiny rearview, and you wonder if he knows what’s going to happen, if he can sense it, if he can feel the tension as much as you can. It seems thick and heavy, like a fog, descending and clouding your vision. Feelings like this used to terrify you, make you run from nightclubs and bars in a mess after drinking to suppress them, ending the night throwing up in the street. Now, you can feel that fog settling, heat spiking in your belly again, and everything Amy does seems to stoke it further. You don’t want to run anymore.

Your phone buzzes again and you have to look at it, seeing a bunch of texts from Gia going back as far as when you were in the bathroom with Amy.

 

 **Gia (10:17 PM):**  
I hope the radio silence means good things.  
Like you’re talking with her, flirting your  
pretty little ass off, and not hiding in the  
bathroom riddled with angst and guilt.

 **Gia (11:29 PM):**  
Seriously, I hope you’re not in a ditch.  
Text me back a fucking emoji, come on.  
I have an empty Netflix queue I need entertainment!

 **Gia (12:41 AM):**  
You’re totally getting laid!  
You’re never this quiet.  
I’ve never seen you off your phone.

 **Gia (12:43 AM):**  
Damn, I hope it’s good.  
Take it nice and slow, babe.  
You know what to do.  
Relax. Breathe. Enjoy.  
I want all the details.  
All of it.

 **Gia (12:44 AM):**  
And really, if you’re not  
banging the hell out of her  
why not? Get on it.  
Get on her. Get in her.  
Whatever. Just do it!

 

You debate writing her a long as hell reply about the bathroom incident, and Gabriel, and how you’re insanely horny, and how - newsflash - kissing Amy still makes you ridiculously wet. But, you don’t, you just quickly text back the smirk emoji. It’s your code for whenever you’re with someone hot or you’re about to hook up. Not quite the sock on the door, but it’s pretty close. Just like you knew she would, she texts back two seconds later with the kiss emoji. All she needs is a damn pom-poms emoji and she’d be set for life. Honestly, you wish you _could_ kiss Amy right now, but you think if you started that, you wouldn’t stop, and though this driver’s nice, whistling along to Journey on some oldies station, you don’t think he wants a front row seat to you and Amy getting it on.

“How much further is it?” you ask, hand resting on Amy’s knee.

She looks down at it and smirks. “Someone’s impatient, hmm?” she comments, leaning in. She’s close enough to kiss.

“Curious is all,” you offer, risking sliding your hand further up, coming to rest on her thigh.

“A few minutes. Had to come this far out to afford the rent on my own.”

She’s trying to play it cool, but you can see how it’s affecting her.

“Oh, OK,” you nod, innocently.

Now you’re the one who’s closer. Dangerously close. Amy’s hand rests on your knee, sliding upwards under the thin material. She was never this brave when you were young. You were never this wanting. This shouldn’t be happening, not now; you know that, vaguely aware of the driver watching you, but you can’t help it. You can’t help it when your lips brush Amy’s lazily, barely doing anything – but clearly doing _something_ – because it’s her that pulls away.

“Not yet,” she breathes, her eyes darting toward your lips and back up again. “Not here.”

Then, the cab rolls to a stop, and suddenly, your heart is racing. Amy glances away, shifting her focus to the driver, leaning forward to read the metre and searching through her purse for money to pay the fare.

“Do you want to split it?” you ask, not expecting her to pay.

“I got it,” she says, casually, her tone light, and _unlike_ how she’s been talking these past few minutes. “It’s fine,” she adds, glancing backwards and extending her hand toward you.

“You’re sure?” she frowns for a second when you don’t move forward, and you smile.

You can tease her too. “I meant the fare, what did you think I meant?”

She just smirks, amused. “Other things you might need to be sure about.”

 _Oh_. Well, you hadn’t really considered anything else _but_ coming back to her apartment, but she doesn’t know that yet. Why should she get to hold all the cards? You’re not that easy. So, you take your time to lace your fingers with hers, stand, and follow her out on to the street. Quickly, you realise it might be a mistake, not sure if she wants this to be so visible, so obvious, shoving them into your coat pockets instead. Bathed in the dim orange light of a streetlamp, you watch as she reaches into the cab, presenting the driver with a rolled up bill. You’re not sure what it is, but you’re pretty certain it’s well above the meter reading, because he smiles brightly, nodding his thanks.

It seems to take an eternity for the cab to drive off. When she eventually comes back to you, she that same delicious smirk on her features. You wonder if she’s going to ask you if you want this again, but all that comes is a slight tilt of her head, motioning toward the apartment building, The Park, in front of you. She’s moving with this graceful, easy purpose you’ve never seen before, relishing in taking the lead, and you almost have to run to keep up with her as she walks past – hips swaying purposely – and heads for the entrance door. It’s a nice place, nicer than you imagined it from what she told you. She says nothing, and you obediently follow her towards the stairwell, feeling the anticipation in you rise with every step you take.

“Just up here,” she informs, and you know this is different now. The low, sultry tone from the cab conversation is back. You nod, eyes meeting hers. “I don’t get that many visitors,” she adds, rounding the corner towards the apartment on the far left, 108. “In fact, you’re the first girl to ever make it back here.”

“I’m flattered,” you note, playful.

“You’re privileged.”

It’s not something you expected her to admit so freely, and it goes against snatches of things you’ve heard about her and the girls she’s hooked up with. Honestly, given what you’re about to do, as you stand behind her, watching her fumble her keys, it’s a relief. Sure, she plays it cool and confident now, but sometimes the mask slips.

“You OK there?” you tease, moving up behind her.

“Keys plus champagne,” she says like that explains it completely. “Harder than it looks.”

There’s a satisfying click when the door unlocks, and she throws it open. Then Amy turns around and looks at you, _really_ looks at you, for the first time. It’s different from when you were reunited earlier this evening, now it looks like she’s mapping you out, eyes lingering here and there.

“Motor skills eluding you?”

“Something like that,” she laughs. “Need an invitation?” she asks, brow quirking up in question.

“Ask,” you reply, with a smile, stepping closer.

“You wanna come in?”

She looks so fucking _cocky_ , so sure of herself again, that you can’t help but surge forward, grabbing on to the lapels of her coat, kissing her, hard and fast, pushing her right through the door to her own apartment. It’s crazy for it to be happening like this, you should be having coffee and making comments about the nice decor and the view, but you’re not. All you can do is kiss her, dimly aware of the door slamming closed and the lights going on. You’re getting flashes of colour, vague glimpses of furniture, photographs, and paintings, but it’s lost, because you’re too busy kicking off your shoes, shrugging off your coats, and grabbing at each other with the least finesse _ever_. The momentum carries you both farther and farther into the room as you carry on kissing greedily and grabbing at whatever you can reach with an impatience you’ve never felt before. _Ever_. Even the sound of you kissing is turning you on. You can see it all so vividly. You want to be naked, right now, in Amy’s bed. You want her mouth all over you, her hands all over you, her fingers inside of you until you can’t _breathe_ anymore and all you can think of is her. You want. You want. You. Want. Her.

“Guess I’m in, huh?” you laugh, breathless, helping Amy out of her blazer.

As soon as it's off she kisses you again, her hands framing your face.

“You are,” she drawls, pushing you backwards onto the couch. “Welcome, glad you could make it.”

Oh, you like this Amy, you _really_ like this Amy. Demanding, and powerful, and effortlessly sexy.

Without another word, she flips back her hair and you’re mesmerised, watching how the loose curls bounce when she takes off her t-shirt in one swift, fluid move. She stands there for a moment, smug, letting you look, making you wait and you don’t waste the opportunity. She’s always had a good body – you have no idea _how_ , but you have seen pictures of Farrah when she was young – but now, it’s just _fucking_ insane. Those abs you used to dream about got a lot more delicious: defined and toned in a way that says yoga rather than solid genetics. You don’t even get to think about everything else because she’s looking at you with that _hunger_ again, and it feels like an eternity passes before she leans down to kiss you, tilting your head up and making you work for it. And you do work, craning to reach her, hands on her waist and then at the button of her pants, zipper down shortly after. She looks surprised at your sudden boldness, but you don’t get to revel in that too much, because she’s moving forward, throwing off the decorative cushions to give your more space, laying you down, and you let her, falling easily. You don’t know how it happened exactly, but suddenly she’s half on top of you, with her hands in your hair, shaking it loose, pins scattering. You turn your head for air, desperate, and her kisses drift to your neck, dotting a slow path downward, tongue swiping. The next breath you were going to take stalls, caught in your lungs because she’s completely on top of you, nudging your legs apart with her knee, hovering over you, waiting until you’re looking before she lowers her body flush to yours, and her hands are on your thighs, skating upwards, pushing up your too short dress until it’s too tight to move any higher. You expect her to stop, to say something, or kiss you again, but she doesn’t. Instead, you feel her fingers curling around your panties, pulling them down with a teasing slowness, and you give so quickly, hips lifting unconsciously to help her.

If it wasn’t Amy, you’d be embarrassed about being so easy, but you don’t have it in you to care.

Quite suddenly – but all too late – it dawns on you; she’s going to fuck you on this couch. Right now, because those panties are gone, tossed away without thought, and she’s back on you, kissing you again, pulling you further down the couch by your hips. For a moment you can’t really _do_ anything, not sure what to with your hands, or where to put them, and you end up kissing her back in this stilted, awkward, but frenzied way that’s almost teenage. She smiles against your lips.

Everything about her says she’s been thinking about this. She’s wanted this for a long time. So have you.

Of course this is the time she chooses to slow things down, of _course_. Her kisses slow and her hands slide down from your hips, tracing slow, slow circles along your inner thighs. You’re tense now, so tense, waiting for that first touch, _aching_ for it.

“Please, Amy,” you beg, shamelessly.

She lifts her head, grudgingly breaking the kiss. Her hands still. “Please what?”

“Do it, just … just do it, please?”

She nods fractionally, but doesn’t do anything else. She’s going to kill you. This is how you’ll die: sobriety descending, half naked, legs spread, pinned underneath her and utterly at her mercy.

“Inside?”

She’s not smirking anymore, she’s deadly serious, her voice hitting that low, _husky_ tone that’s always driven you a little crazy. You swallow hard, and nod, because you don’t dare speak. You used to dream of Amy like this: controlling you, teasing you, taking you however you wanted. The similarity is making you feel strange and light headed in the _best_ way, like you’re not really here, and this is some other you and some other her in some other strange version of your life; not fake, but not quite real either.

Except, it gets real. It gets real because her fingers are stroking through your folds teasingly; her thumb pressing on your clit and circling.

You freeze, mouth falling open, scrambling to grip the couch just so you have a hold on something because _Jesus fucking Christ_ , she’s barely doing anything and it’s working for you, it’s _so_ working. And then, it gets better, because she’s kissing you again, deeper this time, tongue curling into your mouth and stroking at the exact same time her fingers slide inside of you and then curl, just a little – just enough – and you let out a high-pitched gasp, your hands flying to her neck, her shoulders, wanting something, anything else that belongs to her within reach. She hisses when you scratch her accidentally, but instead of pulling away, she kisses harder, presses inside you deeper, moving in an easy, practised rhythm, that gets faster and faster, her hips rocking against you and you don’t ever want her to stop fucking you. Ever.

It’s good. It’s _so_ good. It’s everything and nothing like you thought it would be.

You’re willing yourself not to come, not now, not yet; gasping for air between brief breaks in the kissing, groaning into her mouth when she kisses you again – relentless, heavy, possessive – and you know it won’t be long until you do come; not with the way she’s touching you, alternating between fast and slow circles on your clit and quick, quick thrusts inside of you. The combination is wonderful, and dangerous, and devastating. Then, it happens. Your whole body tenses, and your release is so loud, swallowed down between one kiss and the next, that it’s almost like a scream. This great unfolding of energy. You shudder and shake, your nails sinking into her bicep, saying something like her name. But then, it’s not gone like all the other times, it’s still there, that glorious, delicious feeling is still there, rolling and rolling, just like her fingers, still inside you, easing you down. You can’t think, you can’t _breathe_ , and it’s so amazing and overwhelming you almost feel like _crying_ and … you just …

What. Just. Happened.

Her face is still inches from yours, and she’s looking at you like she’s never really seen you before, pressing the softest of kisses to your lips as she slowly - so incredibly slowly - slides her fingers out of you. Then, she moves back on her knees, gazing down, left hand on your stomach, stroking absently, while she puts the fingertips of her right to her mouth and briefly licks them, tasting. You’re rarely speechless, but really, you’ve got absolutely _nothing_. Nothing for when she drops back down, hands on either side of your head and kisses you deeply, so you taste yourself on her tongue.

“Well that was fun,” she says, right in your ear, finally breaking the silence.

Fun? You wouldn’t say that. Fun seems so small, so trivial, and then you remember. You remember that she’s dated other girls and shot ads and magazines with pretty, pretty girls. They might not have been on this couch, but she’ll have been on theirs. She’ll have undressed them like that, and kissed them like that, and _fucked_ them like that, because that’s exactly what _you_ did with Gia and countless other girls you picked up in bars and can’t remember the name of.

Now you’re someone else’s other girl. You’re one of them. You waited a decade and change and you wasted it with some quick fumble on a fucking _couch_.

“I need to go,” you blurt out, sitting bolt upright, yanking down your dress.

“What?”

“I need to go. I can’t do this with you,” you push her away when she moves closer because it feels weird, and sordid, meaningless. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

It sounds naive and utterly stupid given how you’ve practically been throwing yourself at her this whole time, and the second she finally gives you what you want it’s not enough, because you always thought it’d be more than this. You let go and gave in to this cheap _lust_ , and for what? You’ve ruined it. She’s ruined you ... and you let her, you _invited_ her.

Before she can even say anything you’re up, unsteady on your legs, looking for your shoes, and your coat, and wherever the _hell_ your underwear went to.

“Shit, Karma,” she exclaims with this desperate little sigh and you hate everything. “Wait, don’t leave like this,” you stop your search, standing stock still in the middle of her apartment, listening to her bare feet pad quickly across the wooden floor.

“I shouldn’t have come here at all.”

“Is it … what is it?” she rounds on you, shirt back on, doing her pants up, “I thought you’d been with girls I,” she pauses to collect herself, raking an unsteady hand through her hair. “Was that the first time?” she asks, her concern growing when you don’t answer. “Fuck, if knew that, I would’ve gone slower. Why didn’t you tell me?” she continues, placing her hands on your shoulders, gently holding you still.

“It wasn’t, that’s the point,” you shrug. You practically see the light bulb go on. “There have been other girls. Too many. I always thought it would be different with you. I jumped into things, bounced around to different places, and there was someone different in my bed every night.”

Her hands drop to her sides, and she steps back. “Karma, you don’t have to do this. I don’t need to know.”

“My job made it easy. It was all too fast. Too meaningless. I looked for you in other people because you couldn’t be mine anymore,” you take in a gulp of air, suddenly on the verge of tears. “All this time I could’ve been with you. Every chance I had, I wasted. Even now,” you laugh, but it’s hollow.

“That’s not true, you haven’t wasted anything.”

“Amy, come on!”

“Don’t you see? That was amazing,” she declares, reaching for your hands and taking them carefully in her own. “Crazy and intense, but, amazing, because you let go. You did what you wanted. You never would’ve done that before.”

 _Before_. You never thought of it like that. She’s right, but you still have this nagging feeling that she doesn’t feel what you do. Not anymore. Too much has happened. You’ve broken her heart too many times; left it in too many uneven fragments to ever work in the same way. You’re sure of it.

“I did, and that’s why I can’t stay here. I can’t be a girl you randomly you fuck on the couch, or the kitchen table, or in the fucking bathtub!” you exclaim yanking your hands away from her, turning your back ready to leave, shoes or no shoes. Underwear or no underwear.

“That’s adventurous. You’re presuming a lot there,” there’s an edge to her voice that you’ve never heard before. “There’s no tub, just so you know,” she laughs, but it’s kind of bitter.

You turn back, knowing you’ve upset her. “It’s different with us,” you offer, attempting an olive branch because _really_ you don’t have the brain capacity for this.

She steps closer, gaze fixed on you completely. “Yeah, it _is_ different, and I wanted it to be different too, because this isn’t what I used to dream of,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “We got caught up,” she continues earnestly, moving closer still. “But, I’m not going to apologise for it, or how I feel, because I _want_ you, Karma. I do. I wanted you from the second I saw you walk into the gallery.”

 _Oh._ You’re not entirely sure what you expected her to say, but it wasn’t anything like that. You were watching each other the whole time, both terrified of making yourself known for fear of what would happen (or wouldn’t).

“Amy, that’s not what I meant,” you protest, frustrated you can’t articulate what you’re feeling.

“I know,” she replies quietly, hands clasped in front of her, staring down at her feet, “and if you want to go, then it’s fine, but know this,” her head lifts then, she’s looking you right in the eyes, tilting her head when you try to avoid her gaze just to keep hold. “You’re not just a girl, you never were to me. You’re _the_ girl.”

And suddenly, it dawns on you, this is the real Amy. You see _her_. Your Amy. The sweet girl who confesses love in epic, heartfelt speeches, and loves romantic grand gestures that you thought didn’t exist anymore. She’s still there, and she means every word she’s just said.

“Amy,” you say, brokenly, tears springing up out of nowhere.

“I looked for you too,” she admits, taking your hands again. “No matter how hard I tried, no one could compare. When I said I'd always love you,” she pauses to gather herself, and there are tears in her eyes threatening to fall. “I meant it. A lot of things have changed, but not _that_."

By the time she’s finished talking, you’re a lot closer than you were. Her hands rest on your hips, and she closes what little distance is left between you, brushing her lips against yours. It’s so light, so gentle, the way she’s kissing you - soft, testing little pecks - you almost feel like crying.

No one else has ever kissed you with this tenderness or this love. Passion, yes, but never love.

“Please stay,” she whispers, between one kiss and the next, watching to gauge your reaction. “Please?” she repeats, and there’s sincerity in her voice you’re not used to hearing in other people.

 You were right. She’s still your Amy. Smarter, bolder, wiser, but still yours.

Then, she kisses you again, brave enough to let it linger a little longer than all the rest, and steps back, waiting, hoping. You’ve seen this face before. She was a lot younger, you were a lot more naive, but you’re not about to hurt her again. This time, you’re going to give, to bend, because there’s no one else worth the breaking. She hasn’t worn you down, she’s not the last option. She’s always been the first option, it just took you a hell of a long time to see it.

This is for all the times you said no, but felt like saying yes.

“I’ll stay,” you breathe, leaning in to kiss her again.

When your hands frame her face, they’re shaking, and her own move up to clasp your wrists gently, steadying. It’s all you need. You kiss her again, deeply, slowly, and you both know it’s different. It’s different because of the slow twist and turn of your heads, fluid and easy. It’s different because of the perfect drag and the perfect pressure of her lips against yours, made to fit, yours to kiss. It’s different because of the way she sighs into your mouth. It’s different because of the way her hands slide to cover yours, and she lifts them away, her fingers interlacing with yours. You keep kissing like that for no real reason, connected, sharing air, pushing against your joined hands as things get more heated. When she lets go of one hand, you grudgingly break the kiss, because the move feels important. She smiles at you softly, turning and slowly starting to walk backwards toward what you assume is the bedroom. She doesn’t pull you, she doesn’t drag you, she just waits for you to follow, arms stretched across the space between you.

The energy between you is different now.

You still want each other, that tension is still _very much_ there, but the frenzy is gone; like the excess that had built up over the years had to be dispelled in one huge rush, to bring you to this moment. Older, wiser, calmer, and closer to sober than you were a few hours ago in the bathroom. Truthfully, you’re glad that you didn’t let her fuck you right there and then - you could’ve, so easily - because now you get this. Now, you get Amy, leading you into her immaculate bedroom. She leaves you briefly to snap on the light, turning the dimmer switch so the room is bathed in low, but warm light. It briefly occurs you that she’ll never make love in the dark, and you’re kind of pleased about it.

“This is nice,” you comment, and all that’s missing is the fresh coffee to make this feel like the adult ‘back to my place’ scene you’ve had in your head for years.

“Thanks,” she nods, with a hum of appreciation, moving to toss all the extra cushions from the bed. “It’s only like this because I travel so much.”

The door closes with a soft click.

It is a really nice room now that you get to look at it, with groups of paintings and pictures hanging on the walls; a tall very neat looking closet, a huge bed with a mass of patterned cushions, and the softest carpet you’ve ever felt underfoot. It’s a far cry from her teenage bedroom full of books and DVDs, pictures crammed on the walls, and clothes strewn all over because she’s the _least_ tidy person ever.

There’s something sad about that, you think, hovering near the end of her bed, unsure whether you should sit on it or use the ottoman instead since it seems less committal. In the end, you just stay standing, not quite near the bed, but not so far from it that you couldn’t sit down. You have no idea why you’re nervous, it’s not like she’s never touched you or seen you naked before, she has, multiple times. In fact, she’s already given you the best fucking orgasm of your adult life - no, scratch that, your whole life - not so long ago, and that was clearly just the warm-up act. You don’t know what to expect now, and that’s kind of the problem.

“There’s a balcony,” she offers, hovering near you, but not near at the same time. “It’s nice in summer."

She’s nervous too.

“I’m fine here for now, I think,” you reply, with a smile as you sit on the bed. It breaks the tension. “Summer’s a while off.”

You reach out for her, and she looks relieved.

“Good,” she replies, moving towards you slowly.

She just stands there for a moment, close to you, but not close enough, and she pulls off her shirt again; a slow striptease. You watch with interest, letting out a long, shaky breath as more of her is revealed, inch-by-inch. She throws her shirt to the floor, you move closer to the edge of the bed, and she steps into the space between your legs, hands on your thighs as you pop the button on her pants, sliding down the zipper as slow as humanly possible. She lets out a little snort of amusement that changes to a gasp when you start to press kisses to her stomach, your hands sliding around her waist, down and around to cup her ass, and squeeze. Her own hands fly up to your hair, stroking it, fingers threading through the layers as you keep kissing, moving upwards, dotting a haphazard trail. You risk a glance up at her, seeing her eyes flutter closed, mouth open in a soundless ‘O,’ relishing the contact. You can’t help but smile against her skin when you kiss it next, rising to pepper kisses across her chest, mouth buried between her breasts while you squeeze them.

You like the way they feel in your hands. You like the way her skin feels against your mouth and under your tongue.

The breathy little “fuck” that your touch elicits is the best thing you’ve ever heard. That is, until you latch onto her neck, and she gasps - shocked, high, sharp - as you nip, and suck, and kiss, soothing the spot with your tongue, and she tilts her head to the left, giving you the space to do even more. You keep kissing, marking out a path along her throat, then her jaw, and finally her mouth as you both work together to get her pants off, hands crossing and fumbling because neither of you wants to break the kiss. They’re longer, slower and deeper now, and you can feel yourself getting wet for her all over again. You don’t know why, and you don’t know how, but kissing her has always kind of shorted out your brain - even the chaste little kisses you’d share when you were young. The only time you stop kissing is to let her kick off her pants quickly, before you pull back again, aching for contact. Her hands fall to rest on your waist as your mouth finds hers again, kissing with the same soft pecks that got you into this room.

For a while, all you can hear is the sound of those kisses, and your laboured breaths as you recover from everything else that’s come before them. You wrap your arms around her loosely as those kisses deepen, gasping into her mouth when you realise her hands are moving upwards. You let go of her, arms falling to your sides, and you watch, fascinated as her hands roam upwards to cover your breasts, squeezing. When you turn your head away, her kisses drop to your neck, pressing harder than you did, and you know she’ll leave marks, but you don’t care. You don’t care because she’s reaching around to unzip your dress, and you sigh into her mouth as it goes down in one smooth movement. She peels it away, hands shaking over your back, and she undoes the clasp of your bra one handed. You let out a breathy laugh at that, and you both smile into the next kiss, letting Amy pull down your bra and dress at the same time. She follows the dress all the way until it pools at your feet, and drops to her knees so you don’t even have to step of out of it.

You want to tell her how amazing her body is, how perfect her ass is as she bends, but you can’t, because no words will come out. You’re naked, completely naked in front her, and the only thing that’s between you and her being naked too is the thin material of her own bra and panties. She strokes your legs, and then your thighs, looking up at you every so often with heavy-lidded eyes. You give very real thought to the fact that she might go down on you then and there, but she doesn’t, and you’re not remotely disappointed. Instead, she kisses your stomach lightly, her hands rounding your ass as she moves back up to standing.

Without another word, she reaches around behind, unclasping her own bra, and you move closer to her, mesmerised when she drops the bra and you reach out to touch her, hands skating up her stomach then up and over to palm her breasts, her nipples already peaked and stiff. She sighs, this soft, wondrous sort of sigh the second you start to do it. You’re a little shaky, a little too rough perhaps, but you _need_ to touch, you need to feel her. You want every inch of your skin touching hers, so you reach down, fingertips curling around the top of her panties, and pull them down with one quick tug, and she kicks them off and away, forgotten.

Everything’s gone. There’s nothing left between you. It’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

She pulls you closer then by the hips, pressing your bodies flush, and you think you might _die_. You don’t know where to hold and where to touch, and there’s all too much of her to figure out. Just when it threatens to overwhelm you again, like it did on the couch, she takes control, walking you back the few short steps to the bed until you feel the edge with the back of your knees, and she guides you down to the mattress, carefully, slowly, a hand cradling behind your head to protect you. She’s so gentle in fact, you don’t even bounce when you land.

“Are you OK?” she asks, her mouth hovering just above yours.

You smile, wrapping yourself around her, pushing your hips up into hers. “Very OK.”

“Very?” she asks, stroking your cheek.

“Very,” you affirm, hands shifting up from her neck into her hair.

To prove it, you kiss her, just a single, quick peck.

“Good … good,” she nods slightly, her hands slide downwards, the pads of her fingers tracing your ribs. You shudder at it. “How about now?” she asks, playful. Propped up with her left arm, her right disappears between your legs in the scant space that separates your bodies.

“More than good,” is all you get out, because the second she asks, her fingers slip inside you again.

She murmurs against your lips, kissing you again in this soft, lazy way, roughly in time with the way she’s fucking you. It’s so slow it’s almost painful, and you’re too involved, too lost, too desperate to feel embarrassed that you (and she) can hear how wet you are, how wanting. Unconsciously, your hips rise to meet her thrusts and she hisses a “yes,” pressing deeper inside of you, fingers curling deliciously. You groan loudly, arching your back, your grip on her shoulders tightening, nails digging in because you need something to anchor yourself with, barely able to keep up with kissing her. It takes focus you don’t have. She’s too good at this. She unravels you so easily. You’re getting too close again, you can feel it with every thrust because of the way her thumb keeps brushing at your clit, but it can’t be like the couch. You love the way it feels, you want more. You want her to feel exactly like you do. You need to get as close to sharing this as possible, and you know you haven’t touched her nearly enough for that to be true.

You reach down, hand curling around her wrist, stilling it, and she eases her fingers out slowly, lacing them with yours, and she pushes your joined hands above your head, but you take her by surprise, using that leverage to flip the two of you over, so she’s pinned underneath you for the first time. The sudden power is intoxicating. She looks surprised, thrown even, and you just smirk, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her lips. Letting go of your hands, she reaches up to brush the hair off your face, framing it, her thumbs stroking your cheeks, lifting her head to kiss you again. But you don’t let her, you pull away at the last second, and she looks amused, if a little cheated. When you push her hands back down above her head, she lets out this surprised gasp, laughter bubbling up around a “really?” and you know she’s not used to relinquishing control like this.

The fact that she’s letting you means something.

“Really,” you echo, more sincere. “I need to do this. I need to feel you. I _want_ to feel you.”

Her eyes widen, and she opens her mouth as if to speak, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just nods. You swallow hard, nervous again suddenly as you lift your leg, placing it between both of hers, spreading them wider apart. You push back against her for leverage, settling yourself, pressed as close to her as you can be. She senses where you’re going, and shifts her right leg that little bit wider, bending it at the knee for leverage, angling her hips, just so. She squeezes your hand, and you squeeze back, gazing down at her intently. It’s intense, this moment. It’s hard to breathe all of a sudden. Before the weight of it threatens to crush you both, you start to move your hips experimentally, mouth falling open in something like awe at the feeling of her - the softness, the warmth, the wetness. Every time you roll your hips Amy’s breath hitches, high and loud, and she tries to match you. It’s a little awkward at first, but then you get it, _oh_ do you get it. The rhythm is kind of perfect, your hips moving with her, against her, in slow circles. This time when you kiss, it’s sloppy and mistimed, and you can feel her shaking.

“Harder,” she breathes. “Push harder … ” another kiss. “I need more …” and another, where she snags your bottom lip, biting. “Please?”

There’s something else you didn’t expect: desperation. You swallow hard, forced to let go of her hands and use the bed for leverage instead, watching for a sign as you push down harder, roll quicker. It earns you a moan, long and satisfied, as she grasps your hips and then your ass for purchase, urging you closer.

“Like this?” you ask, breathlessly.

“Yeah,” she manages, “like that,” she smiles and you grind down particularly hard. “You take direction real fucking well!” she laughs, and it disintegrates into a moan when you roll your hips again just to prove it.

Words get difficult after that, because all your focus narrows to Amy, and Amy’s pleasure, going faster and faster, harder and harder, breath shallowing. This has never really worked with anyone else. You never managed to find the right pace and enjoy the way your bodies connect and disconnect; to revel in the sound and the feeling of it all, but now you can, with Amy clinging to you desperately, moaning into your mouth and kissing lazily until you can’t anymore, both chasing down that perfect tension building in your bellies that threatens to speak at any moment. And then, you’re just looking at each other; seeing, hearing, and feeling nothing else but her. You thought the couch was overwhelming, and it was in it’s own way, but it’s different, and more, and _better_ because you’re so close to her you can feel her breath on your skin and see the precise second she falls apart, ecstasy flashing across her face, eyes screwed tight as she comes, hard, with a desperate, beautiful cry, and her whole body shudders with the force of it.

You let out a long, shaky breath, moving slower and slower to try and make it last for her until she’s doing little more than whimpering. Her eyes flutter open, and she tries to speak, but can’t. The beginnings of your name are stuck in her throat, and you press a finger to her lips to quiet her, before dipping your head to kiss her - gently, carefully - your lips just brushing hers, because anything else seems too much. You say nothing else, rolling onto your side, and taking Amy with you, stroking her face and peppering it with light kisses as you hold her, waiting for her breathing to even out.

“That was fucking amazing,” she manages at last, voice still shaky.

“It’s still there between us, isn’t it?” you ask, needlessly, because you know.

“It is,” she replies, quickly, simply. “I’ve never … It’s never,” she struggles to finish her sentence.

“Only with you,” you overlap, finishing it for her.

She kisses you, slow and deep, hands in your hair, but it feels different. More permanent somehow.

That’s the way you stay; satisfied, sleepy, tangled up in each other so close you can hear her heart still speeding in her chest, in content silence. Right before you fall asleep, with the words ‘I love you’ sitting right on the tip of your tongue, you realise that this is where the meaning is. Right here, in this room with her. Ever since she left you for New York, you’ve been searching for something, desperate to find it. Belatedly, you realise, as your eyes get heavy and threaten to close, that you knew where it was all along. Home isn’t a place to you anymore, it’s a person. It’s the girl you want wake up next to for the rest of your life. It’s the girl you’ve loved for all your life. She’s here, and she’s real, and you don’t have to wish and hope for a way to find each other, because you made it.

Loving her isn’t something that you have to dream of anymore.

 

***

 **Footnote** : If you want to make your voice heard re: MTV’s cancellation decision please tweet them, tell them what _Faking It_ means to you and what it means to lose it. For those of you that don’t tweet, please sign and share **[this](https://www.change.org/p/mtv-let-mtv-faking-it-continue) ** petition to help the #SaveFakingIt cause.


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